"Yes, he did," said Nanna, turning round to look at her carefully. She was not quite sure how much Phebe knew, nor how she would take it. The look satisfied her.
"I only want to say," said Phebe, "that you need not worry about it for my sake. I have been so happy lately that I can afford to have a little drawback like that. Perhaps God saw I needed something to keep me humble."
But she could not have spoken in that brave tone twelve hours before. She knew that, and Nanna guessed it too.
"Ah!" said Nanna, "it wouldn't do for us any more than for the trees to have all sunshine and never have a storm."
Yes, Phebe had been very blessed lately, and she not only knew it, but had drunk in all the joy of it. The railway-works had long since been completed, and the hall had been taken down and stored. Most of the men had been scattered all over the country, many of them taking with them the precious secret learnt from a woman's lips, but some still remained in Hadley and the neighbourhood, and these had persuaded Phebe to continue the meetings in the public hall. She had done so, and very happy gatherings they had proved to be.
Every week the further scheme she had in her mind took deeper root: the more she saw of working-men, of their hard life and colourless existence, the more she pitied them. The scheme was often talked over with faithful Nanna, whose brain was as keen as ever, though her body was more bent. More than once she advised Phebe to consult Stephen Collins, but Phebe could not trust herself to do that, knowing too well that temptation lay in that direction.
"Besides," she would add, "I have not money enough yet. Love's Hospital was not my gift—the money simply was passed on by me. This time God seems to show that I have to work for the money, storing it up little by little. When I have enough and have got my plans all settled, I'll ask Stephen to carry them out for me. I don't mind doing that; it would not take long."